"Untitled" by Jing Lin
Two poems by G. J. Sanford
Bloodwork
Quick poke she says and inserts the needle.
It hurts a little more than usual but
I don’t let it show. I spill fantastic
into the plastic container. My fat red beans
swirl and shiver, but I only look once
bc I’m creeped out by my insides.
I broke my finger once and the bone poked
out of the skin like a sliced almond set
in a bed of crushed berries. Since then I’ve had
kind of a thing about seeing what’s usually
inside me. This bloodwork is supposed to be
a gateway to a new/original me; an assurance
that one day I’ll look how I would’ve
had birth gone my way. People keep asking
if I’m excited and yes I say but also no
bc I’m holding on to images of cis men
being toxic as I walk, or take the elevator,
or go to the ball park, or sit quietly reading,
or while I’m working, or shopping,
or eating in a restaurant. I am plagued
by images of trans women lying dead
in the street. But this is my inheritance,
this is what it means to be a woman. That I
will have to fight for the rest of my life
for the simple dignity of being heard
or respected is a given. There is a needle
in my arm and I consider that
as much of an application as I can muster.
A transformation requires blood,
a period of gestation. I will emerge from this
fire-licked, gold-brushed and brilliant,
I promise. I will carry womanhood proudly
on wide shoulders. I will become her.
I give my blood as a sign of this. I give
my blood to bind it. I will always give my blood.
It hurts a little more than usual but
I don’t let it show. I spill fantastic
into the plastic container. My fat red beans
swirl and shiver, but I only look once
bc I’m creeped out by my insides.
I broke my finger once and the bone poked
out of the skin like a sliced almond set
in a bed of crushed berries. Since then I’ve had
kind of a thing about seeing what’s usually
inside me. This bloodwork is supposed to be
a gateway to a new/original me; an assurance
that one day I’ll look how I would’ve
had birth gone my way. People keep asking
if I’m excited and yes I say but also no
bc I’m holding on to images of cis men
being toxic as I walk, or take the elevator,
or go to the ball park, or sit quietly reading,
or while I’m working, or shopping,
or eating in a restaurant. I am plagued
by images of trans women lying dead
in the street. But this is my inheritance,
this is what it means to be a woman. That I
will have to fight for the rest of my life
for the simple dignity of being heard
or respected is a given. There is a needle
in my arm and I consider that
as much of an application as I can muster.
A transformation requires blood,
a period of gestation. I will emerge from this
fire-licked, gold-brushed and brilliant,
I promise. I will carry womanhood proudly
on wide shoulders. I will become her.
I give my blood as a sign of this. I give
my blood to bind it. I will always give my blood.
Encounter w Three Bros @ the Pharmacy
BC I’m chubby and wearing pink
their eyes nibble me slowly. As I pass,
the testosterone squeezes my neck,
presses my hips apart; I nearly
take a step back. But I came
here for fcking meds goddamn it
so I go in. There’s a twenty-minute
wait. I sit in the corner. My arms feel
like they’re actually armbs. Does
that make sense? Three guys, super swol,
dick prints garnishing grey sweatpants
talk about girls /not/ wanting to fuck
on Tinder, about hating practice,
about snorting Adderall the night before an exam.
One of them seems a little too antsy. This isn’t
really an encounter. They don’t do anything
to me beyond vibrate. But the small blonde
in the corner stares at her phone like
it’s seven feet tall and armbed.
A closeted twunk in the corner does
the same. When they call my name,
the antsy bro catches my eye.
He wants me to see his impatience,
his pain. His eyes say he was here first,
that I don’t deserve this, that my fucking
queer self ought to take a vengeful fist
or two or ten. I keep my eyes down
on the way out, try not to clutch
too close my little bag of miracles.
In my car I think about how to spin
this tale for telling, how to make it
a tv romp, how to empty it of fear.
their eyes nibble me slowly. As I pass,
the testosterone squeezes my neck,
presses my hips apart; I nearly
take a step back. But I came
here for fcking meds goddamn it
so I go in. There’s a twenty-minute
wait. I sit in the corner. My arms feel
like they’re actually armbs. Does
that make sense? Three guys, super swol,
dick prints garnishing grey sweatpants
talk about girls /not/ wanting to fuck
on Tinder, about hating practice,
about snorting Adderall the night before an exam.
One of them seems a little too antsy. This isn’t
really an encounter. They don’t do anything
to me beyond vibrate. But the small blonde
in the corner stares at her phone like
it’s seven feet tall and armbed.
A closeted twunk in the corner does
the same. When they call my name,
the antsy bro catches my eye.
He wants me to see his impatience,
his pain. His eyes say he was here first,
that I don’t deserve this, that my fucking
queer self ought to take a vengeful fist
or two or ten. I keep my eyes down
on the way out, try not to clutch
too close my little bag of miracles.
In my car I think about how to spin
this tale for telling, how to make it
a tv romp, how to empty it of fear.
G. J. Sanford is a trans MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Nevada-Reno. Their work has appeared in the Potomac Review, River Styx Magazine, Rust + Moth, Bird's Thumb, and others. They currently reside in a tiny house with their tiny feline muse, Finn.
In her mysterious monochromatic photographs, Jing Lin reconstructs a familiar world that no one has been to. Her background in motion pictures informs her current work. As a graduate photography student at Academy of Art University, she worked with multiple darkroom techniques in traditional and alternative printing processes. She blurs the edge between photography and painting through the use of experimental processes. Solitary, Jing’s most recent body of work, portrays a nonexistent place to examine the theme of self-confinement. Constantly, she explores photography with these questions in mind: What did I see? What did I not see? www.jinglinphotography.com/
Chinese, b. 1993, Chengdu, China, based in San Francisco, USA.
Chinese, b. 1993, Chengdu, China, based in San Francisco, USA.
